


pick your poison

by flowermasters



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alien Abduction, Aliens Made Them Do It, Consent Issues, Crack Treated Seriously, Feelings, M/M, Sambucky Bingo 2019, Sex Pollen, alien amortentia, unrepentantly trope-y
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: “Thanks for that, but it didn’t work,” Bucky calls, in case their captors are still listening.“Hey,” Sam hisses. “Maybe don’t insult our new alien overlords.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 244





	pick your poison

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's a link to my Bingo card.](https://66.media.tumblr.com/2bdacdf31bcf9f29b396aa7c83c154b9/tumblr_q2xutm9dYi1rs54bxo1_400.jpg)
> 
> I'm lazy, so I'm knocking out two squares with this one: "sex pollen" and "aliens made them do it." Please bear those tropes, and their inherent consent issues, in mind. There's no non-con.

Bucky wakes up first, because of course he does; whatever hit them is bound to affect him less than Sam. He sits up, his head throbbing dully, and looks around. He’s on a cold, metal floor in a dimly lit room, fully dressed but unarmed, as best he can tell from a cursory check. The awful familiarity of these circumstances threatens to overwhelm him, but his mind is striking a panicked beat of _Sam, Sam, where’s Sam—_

Sam, as it turns out, is the dark lump on the floor just outside the circle of light cast by the single overhead source. Bucky scrambles towards him on his hands and knees, an awful scampering movement that only serves to heighten his own panic. He grabs Sam by the shoulders and turns him over, seized by the absolute certainty that Sam is dead, Sam died when those things gassed him, when Bucky saw him fall out of the sky—

Sam is not dead; in fact, he looks mostly unharmed except for a few scrapes on his face, the wounds already clotted with dark blood. His eyelids flutter almost sweetly when Bucky gives him a shake. “Sam,” Bucky says, his voice cracking both from disuse and relief. He clears his throat. “Wilson. Wake up.”

Sam groans. “What,” he says, “the hell.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says, finally letting go of Sam’s shoulders. Sam is still in uniform, too, but he’s missing his wings, the shield, and Redwing. His holsters are empty. Bucky takes the liberty of sticking his fingers into Sam’s right boot, where he keeps a knife, but comes up empty-handed.

Sam hisses in displeasure and twitches his foot away. “Your fingers are cold,” he says, opening his eyes finally.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, although he isn’t particularly. Under ordinary circumstances, he derives a great deal of pleasure from messing with Sam; he finds Sam’s peeved reactions profoundly charming. Now, unfortunately, is not the time. “They took our weapons.”

Sam makes a face as if to say, _of course they did_. “They,” he says tiredly, “are fucking aliens. _Aliens_. I’m so sick of this shit.”

“You’re telling me, pal.”

Sam sits up then, sort of gingerly, and looks around. It occurs to Bucky that he’s kneeling, at this point, unnecessarily close to Sam; he wonders if he should move away, and then decides that Sam will let him know if he should. “Where are we?” Sam asks, purely rhetorically, talking to himself more than Bucky. “We’re moving. Can you feel it?”

Bucky hadn’t noticed it until now, but realizes that yes, he can—there’s a gentle, rocking thrum to the floor beneath them, sort of similar to a plane during takeoff. “Do you think we’re on a ship?” Bucky asks. “One of theirs?”

“I think,” Sam says, “that’s a relatively safe assumption, yes.”

“I gotta say,” Bucky says, “I would’ve preferred space travel under other circumstances.”

Sam looks at him like he’s just sprouted a second head. “I would’ve preferred to keep my ass firmly on Earth.”

“Sure you would’ve, Tweety Bird.”

“A _Looney Tunes_ reference, gramps? Isn’t that after your time?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No, actually. Anyway, you can fly a plane, can’t you? Do you think you could fly a spaceship?”

“Without knowing literally anything about what we’re dealing with, I’m gonna say probably not,” Sam says tiredly. “Not to mention, we would have to get out of this room first, and I’m not seeing any doors.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, looking around again, squinting at the walls. His once-over before had mostly been for the purpose of locating Sam, not taking in the scenery. “That’s—unfortunate.” 

The room is maybe twenty feet by twenty feet, dimly lit, with no visible exits. It is, Bucky thinks, pretty well impossible for there to be no doors. At least, it’s impossible for there to _never_ have been a door. Probably.

“This is just a real goddamn shitshow, is what it is,” Bucky says.

Sam is already occupied with the little screen he wears on his forearm, his fingers moving expertly through a series of dialogs. Bucky’s surprised their captors missed that; they have to be advanced enough to grasp its purpose. Maybe it’s just useless wherever they are. 

Sam seems to be thinking along these same lines, because he says, “I don’t know if I can get any kind of signal out. But—and I never thought I’d say this—we’ve got a few space friends we can call.”

“Call what’s-her-name—Danvers,” Bucky says immediately. “Not the other aliens. I don’t trust that fucking raccoon.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Sam says, still fiddling with his tech. “I’m sending a signal to whoever the hell can get it. Besides, last I heard, Thor’s hanging out with the raccoon and his crew now.”

In the meantime, Bucky gets to his feet and walks to the center of the far wall, one of the logical places—at least by conventional standards—where a door would go. He reaches out and taps a vibranium finger against the wall, getting a slightly hollow metallic thud in response. 

Then he backs up slightly and squares his shoulders. “Bucky,” Sam says from across the room, a note of warning in his voice. “I don’t think—”

Bucky swings a fist at the wall, expecting one of two outcomes: to create a dent or a hole, or for the metal to withstand the blow. He does not expect a surge of what feels like electricity to run up his arm, a powerful force that knocks him all the way on his ass, limbs juddering for a few seconds with the force of it.

“Jesus, Barnes,” Sam says, alarmed. He appears in Bucky’s field of vision in short order, crouching over him and looking down with concern. He snaps his fingers lightly in front of Bucky’s face. “Hey. You with me?”

“I—uh,” Bucky manages, blinking a few times. “Yeah. Don’t do that.” It feels like his heart skipped a couple beats with that one; a good shock like that might knock Sam out, or worse.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Sam says. Mercifully, he looks too concerned to crack any jokes, although if they make it out of this Bucky’s sure he’ll never hear the end of it. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Bucky says, sitting up. “I didn’t ask before, but—you?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Sam says, shrugging slightly. “Head hurts a little. Don’t know what they gassed me with, but the last thing I remember is falling out of the sky.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, trying not to picture it again, Sam’s limp body as he plummeted downward, the wings curled protectively around him. “That’s the last thing I remember, too.”

Sam gives him a sideways look and Bucky schools his expression; after a beat, Sam does the same. “Wonder what they want with us,” he says, businesslike. “Not every day you invade a planet and only kidnap two people. That we know of.”

“Some would say we’re not ordinary people,” Bucky points out.

“You’re right,” Sam says. “I am quite the specimen.”

Bucky laughs, and Sam looks pleased. It’s strange, laughing in their circumstances; the sound bounces off the walls discomfitingly. But a bit of gallows humor never hurt anyone. “Well, we did also try to stop them from kidnapping civilians,” Bucky says. “It’s possible we hurt their pride.”

“ _Their_ pride?” Sam says. “We’re the ones being kidnapped, here.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky says. Sam sighs and moves out of his crouch, sitting down on the floor next to Bucky.

“Well,” Sam says. “Nothing much to do, by my estimation. No weapons, no escape routes, possibly no comms. We’re stuck.” He glances up at the ceiling, then briefly around the room. “You think they can hear us?”

“Whether or not they can understand us is a better question,” Bucky says. The aliens, large, scaly creatures with chittering, strangely mechanized voices, had not seemed very interested in talking when they were roaming a crowded street in New York. However, they also hadn’t tried to kill anybody, at least not that Bucky is aware of—and he and Sam are still alive and as yet unhurt, which has to count for something.

“Hey,” Bucky says then, raising his voice so that it echoes off the walls again. He ignores Sam when he swats at him. “If you all can speak English, we’re listening. Or most European languages, actually, and I’m told my Xhosa is decent.”

There’s a few beats of silence, save for the pulsing hum of the ship, before Sam says, “Okay, definitely don’t do that again.”

“Maybe they’re not listening,” Bucky says, shrugging.

Something gives a loud, pneumatic hiss overhead. Sam shoots Bucky a filthy look in the millisecond before they both spring to their feet. “Still think they’re not listening?”

The origin of the hissing sound is revealed in short order; an odor fills the room, not unpleasant—strangely familiar, actually. “Gas,” Bucky says, but Sam already has a hand over his face, cheeks puffed with a held breath.

Bucky holds his breath, too, but even he has to breathe eventually—but he can hold out a lot longer than Sam can, unfortunately, as he’s already had to breathe twice in the interim. Finally, Bucky takes in a quick, huffing breath, blinking back black spots in his vision. His eyes aren’t burning, nor his skin, and he doesn’t feel lightheaded or ill—at least, not yet. If anything, the smell makes him _want_ to inhale; when the hiss stops and it seems as safe as it’s going to get to breathe normally, the scent lingers, sweet and inviting.

“You smell that?” Sam says. “It smells like—”

“Cocoa butter,” Bucky blurts.

Sam gives him a strange look. “No,” he says, his gaze lingering for a moment before he looks away. “I was going to say it smells like—well. It doesn’t matter. What the hell was it?”

Bucky’s not sure, but it _does_ smell like cocoa butter. Cocoa butter and soft leather and—Old Spice. He resists the urge to shut his eyes and inhale deeply; he has the vague idea that if he gets more of that smell, he’ll feel better.

 _No_ , goddamn it—whatever this is, he can’t fall for it. “Thanks for that, but it didn’t work,” Bucky calls, in case their captors are still listening.

“Hey,” Sam hisses. “Maybe don’t insult our new alien overlords.”

Bucky shoots him an apologetic look, although really, Sam’s one to talk. But how to explain the thrum of anxiety that ran through him at the first hissing sound of gas being piped in? He keeps expecting to feel woozy, to black out and wake up strapped to a chair, to watch Sam start to gasp for air and cough blood. None of that has happened yet, but the possibility is now undeniably present—especially the last bit. Bucky is enhanced, and that generally serves him well in situations like this; Sam, on the other hand, is very human, and very vulnerable to things like poison gas.

Sam doesn’t look ill, though, so that’s good. The warm orangey lighting bounces off his dark skin, giving him an appealing, healthy glow. His eyes are bright, glittering slightly with all their usual warmth.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Sam drawls.

Bucky blinks. He hadn’t realized he was staring. He usually measures his glances at Sam, reserving them for idle moments; it’s best not to get caught in the act of looking. “Sorry,” he says. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I feel fine, actually. Headache’s gone.”

“Me, too,” Bucky says, because he does feel okay, at least physically. Better than okay. He’s filled with a restless energy that blends with his lingering anxiety, and has to fight off the urge to start pacing. If he tried punching the wall again this time, he thinks, it might actually work.

Sam is watching him, his expression growing serious. “You sure?” he says. “You’re flushed.”

Bucky reaches up with his flesh hand and touches his cheek lightly. He does feel overwarm; his fingers are cool by comparison. “Maybe they turned the heat up,” he says, aiming for joking and ending up sounding—sort of nervous, actually.

“Maybe,” Sam says, frowning, and then he steps closer, scrutinizing Bucky’s face. “Your pupils are dilated. You breathing alright? No lightheadedness?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. Sam is sliding into medic mode, he can tell; it’s comforting, and he knows it helps Sam, too, that he feels in control when he’s taking care of someone else. But this close, with barely a foot between them, Bucky can see the sheen of perspiration rising on Sam’s forehead. This close, Bucky thinks, he can smell Sam.

“You’re sweating,” Bucky says.

“It’s hot,” Sam mutters, still inspecting, now looking Bucky over from top to bottom, quickly, sort of furtively.

“Sam,” Bucky says. “What did that gas smell like? To you?”

“I—” Sam says, and then stops. Sam very rarely fumbles his words; he also, at least to Bucky’s knowledge, hardly ever lies. Now, though, he looks caught, conflicted, the set of his mouth nervous and unsure. He meets Bucky’s eyes and his pupils are huge, black edging out a ring of deep brown.

“Sam,” Bucky intones, and Sam takes a shaky inhale and then steps forward, bringing them chest to chest. He kisses Bucky’s open mouth, sort of clumsily, and makes a soft, thankful noise when Bucky reaches up to gently touch his face, aligning them properly.

Sam smells so goddamn good and he tastes even better, like chapstick and cinnamon gum. Bucky feels like he could punch through a hundred walls when Sam sucks on his bottom lip and then nips at it, gently, with this teeth.

“Shit,” Bucky says, sort of shakily, when Sam pulls away to take a breath.

Sam’s mouth is quickly at his jaw, pressing kisses to the bristles there. “I was going to say,” he mumbles, “it smells like your aftershave.”

Bucky tilts his head, catches Sam’s mouth again, and grabs him, none too gently, by the hips; Sam moans, loud and startled, in the otherwise quiet room. “What are we doing,” he says, teeth clacking against Bucky’s as he tries to talk, “what the _fuck_ are we doing—”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, breaking the kiss again. “Tell me to stop.”

Sam doesn’t say anything; he’s looking at Bucky’s mouth. His skin is shiny now, damp with sweat, like he’s overheating in his clothes. Bucky knows from touching his face that Sam’s cheeks are every bit as warm as his own.

“Sam,” Bucky says, but Sam is already leaning in to kiss him again.

Bucky starts to walk Sam backwards, quickly consumed by the feverish thought of getting him up against a hard surface, undressing him, pressing up against him. His brain hasn’t even made it to sex yet, although things up there—and elsewhere—are headed rapidly in that direction. He craves touch, the feeling of smooth skin against his own, with a deeply primal need.

“Not the wall,” Sam manages, like he can read Bucky’s thoughts. Maybe he can, for all Bucky knows; he’d believe anything as long as it came out of Sam’s mouth. “The floor, get on the floor.”

Bucky drops to his knees without question, the padding of his armor protecting him from any pain; Sam moans, startled, just looking down at him. Before Bucky can move again, Sam is on the ground, too, pulling Bucky forwards by his shoulders until they topple over, Bucky crash-landing on top of him. It’s inelegant, downright clumsy—in another lifetime, another Bucky would be embarrassed, horrified at the idea of treating Sam like this.

Sam, however, seems to enjoy it; he pulls Bucky fully on top of him, parting his thighs so that Bucky’s hips fit neatly between them. He kisses Bucky again, then starts tearing at the fastenings of Bucky’s uniform top, grumbling, “How the hell do you get _out_ of this—”

Bucky’s not sure he’s going to make it through the undressing process. Lying between Sam’s legs like this has made him incredibly aware of how hard he is, harder than he’s been in—well, probably ever, and pressing almost painfully up against the seam of his pants. As constraining as it is, though, the pressure is welcome, and he ruts instinctively against Sam. “Sam,” he says, tucking his face against Sam’s neck.

“Uh-huh?” Sam says, breathy, and Bucky lets out a soft, desperate noise. Sam pets at Bucky’s shoulders, concerned, sweet, his pulse thrumming in his neck. Bucky bites him there, feverish for it, and comes for Sam’s startled groan.

“I’m sorry,” he says, panting, lifting his head once he can stand to look Sam in the eyes. He feels good, shaky and overwhelmed, but he’s not without shame. “It’s been—I don’t know. A really long time.”

“Oh,” Sam says, looking up at Bucky with sleepy, heavy eyes. He touches Bucky’s burning cheek with the palm of one hand. “Hey. It’s alright.”

This is too much, too much entirely; the relief of orgasm lasts only seconds before the need ratchets up again, by several more degrees this time. Bucky’s body runs so efficiently that he rarely needs to sweat, but he’s sweating now. He wasn’t built to handle this, this awful need.

 _Sam_ , Bucky thinks, or rather feels, somehow, an ache down to the marrow. _Sam_.

He strips Sam out of most of his gear quickly, almost roughly, but Sam allows it, even as he simultaneously fumbles with the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. Bucky bats his hands away and tips his head down, drags his mouth almost deliriously over Sam’s bare chest, then scoots down far enough to take Sam’s dick in his mouth.

“Oh, God,” Sam says to the ceiling, squirming, one of his hands gripping Bucky’s shoulder like he can’t decide if he wants to shove him off or hold him in place. “Oh fuck, oh God.”

This is said so prayerfully that Bucky almost stops, a needle of concern managing to pierce the haze of whatever’s come upon him, but then Sam is coming so hard he can’t speak, his mouth open, gasping. Then he does push Bucky off, trembling, but he doesn’t push him away.

“Sam,” Bucky mumbles, kissing this up Sam’s chest, “Sam, sweetheart, are you alright—”

“Never better,” Sam says, his hands on Bucky’s shoulders again. He rubs his still-hard dick against Bucky’s thigh and moans, eyes half-lidded. “Take your clothes off, shit, don’t make me wait.”

Bucky scrambles to comply, disliking the very thought of doing something to displease Sam, not right now, at least. It’s even better once they’re naked, but also much worse; every sensation overstimulates, but he can’t possibly get enough. He’s never been drugged in a way that feels even remotely pleasurable before, and he remembers drunkenness well enough to know that this doesn’t feel like that, either. He feels very aware of his body, very aware of Sam’s body, to an almost maddening degree, a restless need to be _closer_ driving him on.

Bucky comes again with Sam’s hand wrapped around him, Sam’s tongue on the shell of his ear, and almost cries for it. He lets Sam soothe him with kisses to his forehead and cheekbone and then his mouth, but there’s no recovery to be had, no balm wherever they are, no cure except more of what ails them.

“At least we’re together,” he mumbles.

“What?” Sam says. He seems distracted suddenly, the look in his eyes fretful as he glances up at the ceiling. His pupils are still huge. “Do you think they’re watching us?”

Bucky doesn’t like the unhappy cast of Sam’s features; he doesn’t want Sam to be anxious, he doesn’t want anything bad or unpleasant to happen to Sam, ever. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I’ll take care of you.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Sam says, but he’s already rubbing needfully up against Bucky again, sweetly impatient. Bucky doesn’t answer him, just reaches down to bring him off again.

The things must be listening, must be watching them, because one of them enters the room shortly thereafter. Sam and Bucky are lying on their sides now, facing each other, and Sam sees it first; he curses, then moves as if to get up, but Bucky grabs him by the arm. “No,” he says, turning his head, catching a glimpse of the alien as it skirts the edge of the circle of light, “don’t.”

The alien sets a couple objects down on the floor just inside the reach of the light, then leaves through a door that fades seamlessly into the metal wall once it closes. Bucky disentangles himself, renewed arousal swooping in his gut at Sam’s protesting groan, and crawls over to the offering. There’s a jug of what appears to be water, but Bucky bypasses it in favor of what is definitely a small bowl of oil.

“We don’t know what that is,” Sam says once Bucky’s returned to him, tucking his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck like the brief separation pained him. “Could be harmful.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, running a hand lightly from the nape of Sam’s neck down to the small of his back. He means for the gesture to be soothing, but it’s very easy to let his hand fall to Sam’s ass, palming at one cheek until Sam shivers. “D’you want me to—”

“Yes,” Sam mumbles, plaintive, “do it. Please.”

Sam comes once on Bucky’s fingers, but he’s somehow still hard while Bucky fucks him, moaning into the floor for it like he’s never felt anything better. Bucky doesn’t think he can be blamed for the nonsense spilling out of his own mouth as he drapes himself over Sam’s slick back: it’s a whole lot of _oh God, sweetheart, knew it would be like this, gonna come, Sam, oh._

They both start to flag a bit after that. Sam finally goes soft, and Bucky’s last real memory before everything goes sleep-fuzzy is coming again with Sam’s fingers in him, the climax brief and almost painful, finally too much. He does cry a bit this time, soft, snuffling, unreasonable tears; he’s not _upset_ , exactly, just overwhelmed, exhausted on a level beyond physical. Sam just murmurs dozily at him until he quiets. _It’s alright_ , he says, eyes only half-open, _you just need to sleep, it’s alright_.

The urgency has been somewhat doused, although Bucky still feels a low hum of arousal—but it’s a manageable level, something that’s finally approaching normalcy. The air temperature has started to drop again, or maybe Bucky’s finally starting to cool down, but Sam is, as always, pleasantly warm. It feels good to stay close to Sam, their skin brushing as they lie beside one another, soothing now instead of stimulating. Bucky closes his eyes. 

He wakes sometime later from a thin sleep. It’s cold on the floor, very cold, but something settles over them, a scratchy blanket. Someone speaks, a male voice, deep and authoritative—

Bucky flings himself over Sam, snarling, “Get away from him.”

The green-faced person holding the blanket flinches backwards. “Easy, soldier,” someone else says, and Bucky looks up, finally, squinting against the light overhead as he looks into the face of Nick Fury several feet above him. “I’m not sure this stun baton will work on you, but it definitely won’t tickle.”

“What—” Bucky says, his voice gravelly and hoarse. He tries again. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Fury says. “Now be quiet and let us get you both out of here.”

Bucky starts to protest, but acquiesces numbly once he gets a good look at Sam. He’s either deeply asleep or unconscious, and only rouses slightly when Bucky tries to shake him awake. 

“He needs to sleep it off,” the alien, apparently a medic, says. She leans over Sam as Bucky fumbles his way into his clothes, which are unpleasantly sticky for reasons he’s trying not to think about. He feels weak-kneed and sluggish in a way he hasn’t in a long time. The medic must notice, because she touches her earpiece and says, “I might need two stretchers.”

Bucky should probably ask if they need help—he can hear the distinct sounds of running feet and gunfire overhead—but he doesn’t think he’d be of much use. Fury disappears without another word, and Bucky allows himself to be led from the room by the medic, stumbling through a series of dark, winding corridors until they reach a circular entrance port of some kind, at which point he’s pretty sure they enter another ship. This one is a lot brighter and sleeker on the inside, filled with, by the looks of it, yet more aliens.

Under other circumstances, Bucky would’ve liked to take some time to properly appreciate the fact that he’s in outer space right now. Instead he submits meekly to a brief exam in a small, empty infirmary, cooperating provided he has a decent view of Sam, still only semi-conscious in the next cot over and seemingly unperturbed that he’s being asked questions by a bald, green-faced alien.

“Is he going to be alright?” Bucky asks the medic, the same from the other ship, as she taps the crook of his elbow to get a vein to rise. She wants to take some of his blood and give him IV fluids; he does not protest this.

“He will be,” she says, her expression mildly sympathetic in the timeless way of nurses. “Any lingering effects should be minor and gone within a day or so. You’ll probably be back to normal after a nice long nap.”

Bucky sincerely hopes this is true, although mostly he hopes a long nap will somehow undo the last several hours of his life. He has thus far been mostly successful at not thinking of what happened, but when the nurse steps aside with the vial of his blood, his eyes fall immediately on Sam. He’s already lying back on the cot with his eyes closed, his sleeping face slack and familiar, and Bucky almost gets up to go to him. 

Sam, _Sam_ , funny and honest and true—Sam, who now has a dark bruise from Bucky’s teeth blooming under his jaw. Bucky suffers a flush of anguished, sickly heat at the sight.

“You alright?” the medic asks, returning to start him on an IV drip. Sam’s already got a matching one. “Need anything? Fresh clothes? I could give you something to help you rest.”

Bucky swallows, dragging his eyes away from the other cot. “Yeah, okay,” he says, looking at the wall instead, too exhausted to do anything but. “Thanks.”

He’s not expecting the pill she gives him to do much, but he’s tired enough that it knocks him on his ass—with the unfortunate side effect of some spiraling, psychedelic dreams, most of which are incoherent and the rest of which prominently feature Sam in various states of undress. He admittedly prefers those to the trippy stuff.

He wakes up to the feeling of someone’s eyes on him, asleep one instant and awake the next. He feels a little sluggish, the taste in his mouth sour, but instinct has him subtly tensing his muscles before he’s even opened his eyes.

“That’s impressive,” Fury says, watching from near the door. “I’ve only been here for about fifteen seconds.”

“I’m getting slow, then,” Bucky says, his voice like tires over gravel as he reaches up to rub at his eyes. 

He expects a snide comment from Sam, at either his expense or Fury’s, but when he glances over, the other cot is empty. The sheets are mussed, the IV pole stands unused with an empty bag hanging from it, but no Sam.

“Relax,” Fury says, bored, walking farther into the room and stopping about six feet from Bucky’s cot. “Wilson’s fine. Agent Hill is giving him the tour.”

“Right,” Bucky says, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, before going still as he’s struck by the thought that Sam is probably avoiding him, and for good reason. He swallows this realization down so that it settles, with unpleasant acidity, in his gut.

“Surely you have questions,” Fury continues, clasping his hands idly behind his back and yet still managing to look like Bucky is wasting his time. “I’ll hit the FAQs. No, I’m not going to tell you why I’m here or what I’m doing. Yes, we recovered your weapons. The green people are called Skrulls. They don’t eat or mate with humans. Usually.”

This draws Bucky from his thoughts. “You hear that last one a lot?”

“We don’t get many visitors,” Fury says dryly. “But I assume we would.”

“How did you know where to find us?” Bucky asks. “Sam’s message?”

“No,” Fury says. “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier got abducted by aliens in broad daylight on a crowded street. It garnered some media attention.”

Bucky blinks at him. “You get the news out here?”

“Sure,” Fury says, shrugging. “Have to adjust the antenna sometimes, but the picture still works.”

Bucky can only assume this is a joke, but he’s not much for jokes when Sam’s not around, and he’s definitely not up for them now. He eyes Fury, wondering exactly how much of a front he can reasonably expect to maintain, before asking, “So what were those things?”

“They’re called Ichh’tor,” he says, or at least, that’s what it sounds like he says. It’s sort of guttural, but also weirdly hiss-like at the same time. “The ones you and Wilson ran afoul of traffic in foreign species. They kidnap interesting specimens, film them in compromising positions, sell them off, whatever. Not a particularly violent bunch, at least not directly, but they have a special skill—they’re very good at manipulating pheromones and hormones. They’ve bottled the essences of every species; they can manipulate your fight or flight instinct, your nurture response, you name it, with an injection or a dose of gas. Their specialties, though, are arousal and aggression. You can imagine to what ends.”

“Aggression,” Bucky repeats numbly.

Fury raises his eyebrows. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose you ought to be grateful they didn’t make you rip Wilson in half.” 

This is, objectively speaking, the least comforting thought Fury could have suggested, but Bucky has already reached that conclusion himself. Locked in an empty room with no escape routes and no weapons, nowhere to take cover and no real hope of outlasting Bucky’s endurance, Sam would’ve put up a good fight—but it would’ve turned into a bloodbath all the same. A tingling numbness spreads through Bucky at the idea, starting at his head and draining slowly downwards. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, briefly certain he’s going to throw up.

Those things hadn’t made him fight Sam, and for that he is immensely lucky, but they had made him—Bucky wants to think of it as _making love_ , wants it badly, but it feels disingenuous to do so, given the circumstances. Maybe they did make him hurt Sam, for all he knows, physically or otherwise. That’s the worst thing, the absolute _worst_ thing that could’ve possibly happened. To Bucky, at least.

He’s cognizant of Fury watching him, his expression one of neutral disinterest that Bucky doesn’t entirely buy. He marshals himself and says, “Well. Are we headed back to Earth?”

“We’re already here,” Fury says. “In orbit, that is. I’ve been advised by the medical team that you two can be released at any time.”

“Sounds to me like we’re about to get the boot, then,” Sam says, stepping through the open doorway to the infirmary, his gaze flitting quickly from Fury to Bucky and back again. He looks tired but otherwise healthy, wearing two small butterfly bandages on the scrapes to his face and a set of nondescript gray sweats that matches what Bucky was given to sleep in. 

Bucky isn’t prepared for the rush of relief the sight of Sam inspires; it’s a physical sensation, nearly a twitch, that comes over him, the urge to get close to Sam. Perhaps that nice long nap hadn’t been enough to cure him, then.

Fury raises his eyebrows at Sam. “You’re welcome to get off my ship at any time,” he says. “You may want to wait until they finish decontaminating your gear, though. Don’t worry—they’ll be dry-cleaned.”

“Yeah, you got jokes,” Sam says dryly, but he does smile when Fury claps him on the shoulder as he passes on his way out the door.

Fury’s exit isn’t exactly hasty—he doesn’t seem like the sort of man that allows himself to appear uncomfortable—but Bucky can’t exactly blame him for wanting to scram. Sam watches Fury go, then turns, seeming to hesitate briefly before tapping a button on the wall that causes the metal door to slide shut. 

“So,” Bucky says, before the silence has any chance to stretch on. “How are you feeling?”

“Rode hard and put away wet,” Sam says, turning from the door, and Bucky doesn’t miss his regretful little wince before he meets Bucky’s eyes. “Sorry. You?”

“Fine,” Bucky says. “Tired.” He doesn’t move from where he’s perched on the edge of the bed; he’s not sure approaching Sam is a good idea right now. Sam looks uncommonly nervous, his brows drawn together, his arms crossed over his chest, as he walks toward the cots. He stops at about where Fury was standing, maintaining a safe, somehow chasmic distance between them.

“Listen,” Sam says. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, God,” Bucky says, blurting this reflexively. “Okay.”

Sam gives him a wry look at this, then carries on, his expression sobering. “I understand if things are—uncomfortable, between us,” he says. “And I understand if you need time, or space, or both. Just say the word.”

“Sam,” Bucky says, slowly. “You know we were both—affected, right?”

“Trust me, I’m well aware,” Sam says dryly. “But I just—I’d never want you to be in a situation where you felt out of control. Not if I could help it.”

Bucky knows what Sam is angling at, and he knows that once the shock has worn off he might feel a bit more upset about this whole thing, and he’s already angry—but at the creatures that did this, not at _Sam_. But this is Sam’s way: worrying about others first, shouldering the responsibility of their needs with no thought to his own. “But you _couldn’t_ help it,” Bucky says. “It happened to you, too, Sam. And you didn’t do anything to me that I didn’t want.” 

There’s a beat of silence, these words hanging between them—the admission that they had _wanted_ , or had at least been made to want, and that it had felt good. Even now, Bucky can’t think of the specifics concretely; he’s scared of how he might feel if he does. 

“Well,” Sam says. “When you put it like that.”

Bucky huffs, amused, and Sam gives him a weak smile. “Sit down,” Bucky says, or rather implores; he can’t bear having Sam awkwardly stand there like he’s being held at gunpoint. He pats the bed beside him. “You heard Fury, we’re not going anywhere just yet.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he does sit down on the edge of the cot, leaving a polite few feet between them. Bucky feels warmer, somehow, just having him this close; it’s like sitting by a sunlit window. 

Yeah, the goddamn alien pheromones are still working—but he _has_ always felt better, somehow, when Sam’s around. More at ease with the world. That’s not new.

“I talked to Hill,” Sam says, businesslike. “She told me if there’s any footage, she’ll get rid of it. Not sure exactly how much a promise from a secret agent is worth these days, but at least it probably won’t end up on alien RedTube.”

“Right,” Bucky says. He hasn’t even had time to consider this possibility. Fortunately for them both, Sam is nothing if not practical, at least until you strap a pair of wings to his back.

Sam gives a wry smile as something occurs to him. “Apparently I’ve been the top trending topic on Twitter for over twelve hours now.”

“Just you?” Bucky says dryly. “Typical.”

“What can I say, man,” Sam says. “I’m America’s sweetheart.”

Bucky laughs, and Sam grins at him, and Bucky is briefly seized by such fondness that he can’t come up with anything to say in response. Usually he’s faster with his comebacks; he has to stay on his toes around Sam. At least the quiet that falls is no longer so uncomfortable.

“So you’re sure you’re alright,” Sam says after a few beats, looking askance at Bucky.

“Peachy keen, I promise,” Bucky says, holding Sam’s gaze. “And you? I didn’t—I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

Bucky remembers being cognizant that he should be careful with Sam, but that had been more out of tenderness than caution. It’s very possible he might’ve gotten carried away, his own strength forgotten. But he also remembers Sam moaning for it, begging for more; complicated situation or not, Bucky’s pretty sure that’s going to stick with him for a lifetime. Something to keep him warm on cold nights.

Maybe Sam’s memory serves him just as well, because his voice has dropped a few notes when he says, “You didn’t hurt me. But I’ll be feeling it tomorrow.”

A thrill zips up Bucky’s spine. Somehow he always forgets how warm the brown of Sam’s eyes really is until he looks into them properly. “Be surprised if you didn’t.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. They look at one another for a moment. Then Sam says, “You keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you’re still hopped up on alien sex drugs.”

Bucky decides playing dumb might be the safest option here. “Looking at you how?”

Sam sighs. “You know how,” he says. “Or—or maybe you don’t. But sometimes, when you look at me, it’s like—I don’t know, man.”

Now, Bucky thinks, it might be time to aim for some levity; Sam seems to building up to something, and Bucky’s not sure he’s going to like what it is. “You know, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you stutter before.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Barnes,” he says. “I’m being serious, here.”

Bucky hesitates, then nods, and Sam inhales quietly. “Maria mentioned,” he says, “that those things might’ve taken us because they thought, maybe because we’re partners, that we’re—a thing. Or that we have chemistry they picked up on.”

Sam is avoiding his eyes now, but Bucky can’t look away from him, from the elegant points of his cheekbones and the strong line of his neck. “Do we not?” he asks finally. “Have chemistry, I mean.”

“Even without the drugs?” Sam says, looking over, quirking his mouth thoughtfully. “Yeah. We do.” 

“Sam,” Bucky says, in what he hopes is a gentle sort of warning—last chance to stop this before it happens. But Sam doesn’t stop him; he doesn’t move, just stays there while Bucky covers the distance between them, leaning in to lightly kiss his mouth.

Sam deepens the kiss almost instantly, turning his body on the bed to get closer to Bucky; his hands come up to grasp at the loose fabric of Bucky’s sweatshirt. He makes a soft sound when Bucky’s tongue brushes his, a little noise that reminds Bucky of the way he groaned when Bucky bottomed out in him; now Bucky makes a low groan of his own. He could lay Sam down on the bed right here and—

Sam breaks the kiss, still holding onto Bucky’s shirt with both hands; he’s breathless, his eyes on Bucky’s mouth, when he says, “Jesus, man.”

“We shouldn’t do this here,” Bucky says, thinking of the ease with which someone could walk in, but also thinking that he could be very easily persuaded otherwise.

Sam manages to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s mouth. He smiles, loosening his grip on Bucky’s sweatshirt and smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle in the fabric. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, letting his hands rest on Bucky’s chest for a beat longer than necessary before he moves them away. “Besides, I’m already covered in hickeys from you as it is. You know we’re probably gonna have to do a press conference, right?”

Bucky grimaces, and Sam says, “Uh-uh. No whining. I do all the talking at those things anyway, and people are going to want to know we’re okay.”

“You’re really letting this Twitter thing get to your head, huh.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “What, no bird joke? You’re slacking, old man.” 

He pauses, his expression softening, going almost—shy. It's a good look on him. “You know, I kinda wondered. About you, and the way you look at me. I thought maybe you were down for it. But you—you’ve really been sweating me, huh?”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says, “you got no idea.”

Sam’s mouth quirks; he presses his lips together briefly. “You know,” he says, “there might not be quite as many fireworks without the influence of alien aphrodisiacs.”

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe not,” he says, smiling slowly, watching as Sam gives in and grins back at him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.” 


End file.
